


Neon Wasteland

by bwyn



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fallout (Video Games) Setting, Drinking, Emotional Constipation, Gambling, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Nuclear War, Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:56:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28462746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwyn/pseuds/bwyn
Summary: Hawke loves the wasteland because it’s already so broken: overrun with ghouls and darkspawn and deathclaws, irradiated to shit, with people that treat kindness like poison and drugs as currency, who will curse Fenris and praise the Courier as if they aren’t the same person.So what if he breaks it a little more? Nobody can get mad, right?“No,” says Fenris, “that’s not actually how that works. You’re an inconvenience at best, a warhead at worst—no, usually.”Hawke and Fenris return from a job and wreak havoc. The usual.
Relationships: Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 3





	Neon Wasteland

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coatofflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coatofflowers/gifts).



> for finnathan (っ˘ ³(ˆ⌣ˆc) three days past three years ago i posted my first gift fic to u. happy new year!!
> 
> i saw fallout setting, i thought "oh i'm already writing one"  
> i saw fenris/purple!hawke, i thought "oh i've never written them before"  
> and then i watched a ten minute best of zevran video

Hawke loves the wasteland because it’s already so broken: overrun with ghouls and darkspawn and deathclaws, irradiated to shit, with people that treat kindness like poison and drugs as currency, who will curse Fenris and beg the Courier as if they aren’t the same person.

So what if he breaks it a little more? Nobody can get mad, right? 

“No,” says Fenris, “that’s not actually how that works. You’re an inconvenience at best, a warhead at worst—no, _usually_.”

“ _Am_ I though? Everything’s already rusty and dented, does it _really_ matter if I put a hole in it?”

The hole in question is a farmstead on fire. It was supposed to be a simple job: intimidate the raiders to leave them alone. Well, the raiders certainly won’t be coming back. Fenris levels Hawke with his flattest look yet, causing him to flip his hands up in surrender.

“Okay, I might’ve gone a bit overboard.”

“God.”

“Don’t use your own name in vain.”

Fenris hisses a sigh through his teeth. If Hawke was ever faced with a synth posing as Fenris, that’s the first thing he’d look for. The second would be the pinprick tattoos he put beneath every nail just for that purpose. Paranoid, but he’s allowed to be.

“I’m not a god,” Fenris bites out, not for the first time and definitely not the last, because if there’s one thing Hawke has confidence in aside from running his mouth, it’s pushing a gag beyond the limits of funny and beyond.

Not that Fenris ever thought it was funny. It’s difficult to be worshipped and cursed depending on whether the people he meets are alive or dead by the end of it. 

“Keep telling yourself that while we walk past the shrine meant to appease your wrath.”

Fenris scowls and says nothing, because there _is_ a shrine (not for much longer, as it burns with the rest of the farmstead) and also a pack of feral ghouls that had been napping before being woken by acrid smoke. It’s not as though Fenris can’t talk while wielding a claymore, but Hawke has mastered one-sided battlefield banter and doesn’t leave much room for response. Only this time it seems like Fenris is quiet as a _point_ and not a byproduct of Hawke’s incessant one-liners, and Hawke won’t admit it, but the only people who can churn the near constant sediment of his anxiety are his sister and Fenris. 

Sometimes, when he awakes paralyzed and waits for his demons to leave out of boredom, he considers scratching the surface of that thought. But there’s a lot under there he isn’t prepared to face.

“What’s gotten you all stone cold?” Hawke dares to ask when they’ve chopped the ghouls up into bits and the farmers told them to leave in equal parts fear and rage. 

Fenris doesn’t respond. Not unusual, but also not a neutral point. At least he isn’t glowing yet. A glowing Fenris is as dangerous as a glowing ghoul: radiation pulsing from a body whose core should have killed him long ago, but instead turned him into an amalgamation of scientific arrogance and a traumatized child’s worst nightmare. 

They tried to figure it out once—the glow, and what caused it. Hawke ended up trading jibes with Death until Fenris brought him back. He won’t long forget the expression on his face. That was around the time Hawke decided to stop following Fenris around like a particularly mischievous magpie, and realized Fenris was following _him,_ and then further realized they’d been following each other for the better part of a year which meant they were actually travelling _together_ , and, well, they haven’t parted since.

They don’t talk until they reach Haven, an ironically named walled city of some thousands, perched shining and rotten near the entrance to the Deep Roads. Originally an outpost for adventurers and mercs to gear up before going underground, eventually so many were moving through that some even started coming _back_ , and that was grounds (evidently) for a booming trade. So the outpost turned into a village into a city, always sniffing at the boots of war. 

Exactly the sort of place a warhead and accompanying harbinger of nuclear doom might frequent. 

Night descends on Haven early, the smog-veiled sun hidden by mountains. In response, the city sparks to life, all neon lights and precariously stacked apartments looming over crowds of people—ghoulish, synth and otherwise. 

“Want that looked at?” a familiar doctor calls out to Hawke as they pass. Hawke doesn’t know what he’s talking about until he follows the doc’s pointed look and touches tacky blood at his hairline. 

“If it ain’t bleeding, it ain’t broke,” replies Hawke cheerfully. Once they’ve left the comically disappointed doctor behind, Hawke cocks an eyebrow at Fenris. “Are you proud? I took care of my wellbeing.”

If Fenris was the sort to groan, this would be the time. Instead, he says, “By denying yourself medical aid.”

“Medical aid that nearly gave me gangrene once.” 

“From whom you’ve accepted services since then, regardless.”

Well, that attempt at wringing some praise out of Fenris fell flat. Understandably so. Hawke _did_ go back after his botched mastectomy numerous times, despite Fenris’ increasingly irate protests that only intensified in their rage when Hawke said he could just cover the scars with tattoos. 

_“Tattoos don’t cover rot,”_ Fenris had snapped.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned his wellbeing—20/20 hindsight and all that.

Hawke maintains his sufficiently repentant silence up until they reach their shared apartment, which is little more than a few attached metal boxes in which they store their weapons. On one hand, very little space to live. On the other, the entrance is inconvenient and hard to find unless you know where it is, hidden in an alley squished between a popular gambling den and an inn. An excellent place to hide, or smuggle, or rest between jobs.

Which is probably why, having been gone for some weeks, they find Isabela scoping it out. Thankfully this time she doesn’t try to shank them under the pretense of thinking they’re synth replacements.

“Oh, you’re alive?” says Isabela, slipping a wickedly curved dagger back into the sheath on her bare leg. “Damn. I was kinda hoping I’d finally inherit your apartment.”

“I don’t remember putting you in the will,” says Hawke as he sets his axe amongst the stack of weapons yet to be cleaned. He’d meant to deal with that sooner. Now the room has a weird smell to it.

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t.”

“...Hm.” He doesn’t need to turn to know Fenris is giving him a look. “You goin’ out to play tonight?”

“Naturally. You in?”

“Naturally. Just let me freshen up.”

Which really means allowing Isabela to scrub all the dried blood from his face, her nose wrinkling when he points out not everyone can glow like amber. Somehow she finds something cleaner for Hawke to change into, along with his favourite hidden blades to tuck away. Part of the reason why they get along so well is their shared interest in things with sharp edges—swords, knives, garrots, clean cut jewels on occasion. Except for Fenris. Isabela said Hawke could keep that one to himself.

Fenris joins them despite the lack of invitation. Compared to Isabela’s thigh-highs and slit tunic, and Hawke’s plunging neckline, Fenris’ leather and leggings combo is practically modest. Hawke prays to any well-meaning deity that nobody tries to pick up Fenris tonight.

The bouncer demands caps at the door, but waives the entry fee for Isabela, who winks and tosses her thick black curls over one bare shoulder. Inside, the smoke is thick and the stench of alcohol particularly pungent. Fenris sighs audibly but doesn’t try to persuade Hawke to leave, instead detaching himself to skulk about the perimeter. 

Beneath a hazy orange light hanging from the high ceiling, Isabela leads Hawke to a particularly raucous table. The dealer is struggling not to grin, amused by the financial death throes of the players. Isabela physically nudges a man half-passed out to the floor, allowing a resigned employee to drag him off while she takes his vacated seat. Hawke waits for her to win two hands fair and square before switching out with a gaunt old man gambling his rent away.

The dealer flicks out a pair of cards to each player at the table. Hawke stacks his collection of caps in front of him, watching just beyond how Isabela’s fingertips tap almost imperceptibly on the tabletop. Queen of hearts, ace of diamonds. Not a great match to his own two of diamonds and eight of spades, but she’s already placed a cap down as big blind, so he’ll call. 

A club and two spades on the turn. A flush is out of the picture, but there’s a ten and a nine. Hawke knocks his knuckles on the table, following the lead of his neighbour, and cages his fingers over his cards. The other players check up until Isabela adds another cap to the pot. One person folds with a roll of his eyes while the rest call. 

The next turn is a jack of hearts. Nobody’s getting a flush this turn, or a royal straight. Any pair is possible, but with an eight to queen straight between them they’ve got this in the bag.

Playing poker as it’s meant to be played is fun and all, but Hawke would be lying if he said the thrill of cheating wasn’t the reason he came in the first place. He’d been falsely accused of it enough times to do it for real out of sheer spite. With a thoughtful scratch at his beard, he signals to Isabela that he’ll trade out her ace. Switching her crossed legs tells him how she’ll do it. 

With one wayward cap and a scramble to stop it from rolling off the table, Isabela suddenly has a straight and Hawke less than nothing. That doesn’t mean he can’t double bluff. As though trying to intimidate people to drop the pot, he only ends up plumping it until Isabela shows her spread, and her opponents hide their pairs and failed attempts at other hands.

Another reason Hawke and Isabela get along so well: they love risk and reward.

After several hands and allowing a loss to assuage suspicion, they take a break to spend some of their hard earned money at the bar. Isabela requests a bottle of their hardest liquor to sip; Hawke asks for a glass of ice, empty otherwise, simply to flex his skill at swindling alcohol from Isabela. 

“Is Fenris ever going to play a game?” asks Isabela with a languid gesture upwards.

Hawke follows her hand to spy Fenris lurking on the second floor, looking personally offended by all the smoke collecting along the ceiling. “Oh, definitely not.”

“Then why is he here?”

“Because I am, obviously.”

“Obviously,” says Isabela sweetly. “The two of you are worryingly codependent.”

Hawke snorts as he nudges his glass closer to Isabela. “Nonsense. Y’know he wants to be the one to off me after everything is said and done. A premature shiv between the ribs would really throw a wrench in that plan.”

“Right, ‘cause Fenris isn’t gonna be the one to die protecting you.”

“That’d be terrible.”

Isabela leans forward to rest her chin on knit hands. “You have this way of speaking as if you’re joking, but even after all this time, I can’t actually tell whether you are, and that’s what worries me.”

“You worry after me, Isabela? I didn’t think we were quite that close. Should we pop another bottle to celebrate reaching the next level in our friendship?”

“Hawke, I’m only gonna say this once and then we won’t speak of it.”

“Oh, cheers.”

“Protecting yourself is as good as protecting the people you love.”

Hawke assumes his neutral expression—blank smile, raised eyebrows, incredibly condescending—while his brain grinds to a rusty halt.

“Oh, you _are_ the worst,” says Isabela, openly fond because Hawke is in no shape to process _that_ on top of it. “Fenris might be a walking, talking science experiment, but he still deserves better than you.”

“Ouch,” says Hawke. Insults, at least, are easy to respond to. 

She grins and kicks his shin and tops his glass to the brim. It isn’t a secret that Hawke can hold his liquor. What is less known is that fact only holds true in regard to the strength of his stomach and the longevity of his depth perception. His brain to mouth filter, unfortunately, is directly attacked. 

Hawke will therefore blame Isabela for the fact he says, “Read ‘em and weep, boys—royal flush” when he’s missing the king Isabela hasn’t yet given him, and follows it up not with _Oh no I’m alcohol blind_ or _Oops I thought this spade was a club_ but “Izzy, where’s my king?”

The sober dealer is understandably suspicious, even while it takes the other players a handful of seconds longer to spot why.

Hawke and Isabela make eye contact across the table. She’ll forgive him.

“The wench palmed my king!” he cries, leaping to his feet and pointing wildly. 

“Ass,” says Isabela.

She throws her empty bottle at Hawke, forcing him to duck. She was _not_ aiming wide. The glass shatters on the back of a man across the room, caps following not long after just to really get that free-for-all going. Hawke pockets his winnings and books it towards the exit while Isabela vanishes between bodies grabbing for the caps. 

A pair of large hands close around Hawke’s biceps and lift. For a baffling moment, Hawke is running on air, until the owner of the hands throws him to the floor. He lands on his back, lungs clapping empty, and rolls to avoid the boot that follows. Above the ruckus, he hears the scrape of metal as a sword unsheathes. 

One moment Hawke is scrambling for air and cover, and the next there’s a body dropping heavily beside him. He turns his head to meet the glazed eyes of an unconscious bouncer.

“Why hello there,” he rasps before wiry legs appear before him. He twists to beam up at Fenris. “Why _hello_ there.”

“Hawke,” says Fenris disapprovingly. 

Hawke might have half a foot and several dozens of pounds on the other man, but Fenris handles him like a ragdoll. Without waiting for Hawke to rise to his own feet, Fenris slips an arm around his chest and hauls him upright with enough momentum to send them both diving through the exit. 

Their departure does not go unnoticed. Several brute-types dog them through the night market, persistent enough that Hawke knows the flash of blue along Fenris’ cheekbones isn’t entirely due to the neon lights. Hooking their arms together, Hawke takes a sharp turn into a gap between two stalls. They jump over a pile of trash and take another turn into the tangle of inconvenient walkways that mark the slums.

The homes here are misshapen and stacked, held together by centuries old rope, wire, and the hopes and dreams of its occupants. It’s fragile, but Hawke’s climbed it enough to know it can still take his weight.

As he’d hoped, the window to the little middle apartment is open. He clambers in first, slipping off the sill and tumbling onto his back with an _oof_. 

“Oh my,” says the apartment’s owner, rising from a crate to peer down at Hawke with large green eyes. “Do you hate the stairs that much?”

Hawke shrugs and accepts her proffered hand. “The dent in my shin is _definitely_ their fault.”

“Or any number of other things you’ve kicked and missed,” says Fenris as he lands in the apartment much like a cat. He nods to the woman helping Hawke to his feet. “Merrill. Once again, I apologize for our method of entry.”

“Not at all,” says Merrill breezily. “It’s why I leave the window open. So, what’s it this time?”

“Isabela and gambling.”

“Why doesn’t she ever come visit?”

“Hawke’s escape attempt involved throwing her to the deathclaws.”

Merrill shoots Hawke a reproachful look that dissolves as soon as he feigns a pout.

“That’s not a very nice thing to do,” says Merrill. “Want a drink?”

“Yes _please_ ,” says Hawke even as Fenris groans. “Isabela will forgive me. Threaten me a little, and I’ll have to pay for her booze for… at least a week, because her interest rates are high, but she can’t get enough of me.”

“I think she rather wants your bunker.”

“You mean the apartment?”

“The bunker,” agrees Merrill.

“Hm.”

A tin cup of something rather thick is passed into Hawke’s waiting hands. He swirls it around a little, baffled by the consistency and the refraction of light within it. Unnatural in a way that promises hell on his liver.

“For you, too, Fenris?” asks Merrill hopefully.

Hawke doesn’t know what it is with Merrill and trying to poison Fenris with her moonshine, but he thinks it might have something to do with how his irradiated veins flicker at his drunkest. Merrill’s the sweetest person Hawke knows, but also the most dangerous. 

Fenris takes one look at Hawke, halfway through a sip and unable to control his expression, and relents in record time. “What’s it called, then?”

Another thing about Merrill: hers is the only booze Fenris will accept, because despite the danger, she’s not actually trying to kill him.

“Dew of Eluvian,” she replies, passing Fenris a cup with a beaming smile.

“Interesting choice,” says Fenris before taking a tentative sip. Hawke swears he sees his irises expand and contract with the bob of his throat and the overpowering rust and citrus flavour. Well, mostly citrus, but there’s definitely something metallic in there and Hawke is certain it isn’t his own blood. 

By the time Hawke realizes Merrill definitely put some form of irradiated mushroom in her brew, he’s drunk, but a weird drunk. 

“What did you say this Lew of Fuvian was made with?” Hawke asks as the walls of the apartment ebb and flow like the tide in slow motion. His mouth feel the opposite of drunk-numb. Instead, every word is carefully carved from his throat to his tongue to his lips. He feels everything.

Fenris scoffs. “It’s Dew of Maretharian.”

“Where the fuck did you get Martha from? There’s a V in there, a _V._ ”

“It’s named after the leader of her vault, idiot.”

“I’m _fairly_ positive it isn’t. Did you drink too much?”

“Says you.”

“I– Yes. Says I. Says me.”

Hawke flings out an arm and flinches back when the wall warbles like flimsy sheet metal. The entire hallway churns with it, all liquid and neon. Hawke blinks hard. They’re not in Merrill’s apartment anymore. Hawke takes a step forward and the hall shortens to a single threshold, opening into a labyrinth and a cluster of sparkling neon lights.

“Where’s Marie?” asks Hawke.

“You mean Maisel?” Hawke doesn’t think so but it sounds a little better than Marie, so he nods. “I don’t know. I thought she was with you.”

“ _You’re_ with me. I think. Fenris?”

“Here.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

Hawke keeps asking and Fenris keeps answering until they realize they’re back to back and turning on the spot. Hawke grips Fenris by the biceps to keep him from spinning any further. The world seems especially flimsy around Fenris’ head, currently the only thing that Hawke can focus on. His eyes are greener than usual. Or greyer. Or both. And his skin, usually ashen, is warm and flushed, pulsing with muted electric blue from deep within.

“You’re flickering,” Hawke points out.

The red of Fenris’ cheeks darkens. “I’m not.”

“You are.” 

The blue grows brighter, and seems to snake to the surface of his skin like moonlit tattoos. Beautiful, and worrying.

“What’s got you so worked up?” asks Hawke slowly.

Fenris opens his mouth but no words come out. Instead, he stares at Hawke, eyes wide like he’s never seen him before in his life. The moment Fenris’ gaze glows blue instead of green, Hawke lets go of him and takes a step back. 

The world is too bright and vivid. Hawke knows the slum’s labyrinth is dark and shadowed even in the daytime, where the hazy sun is blocked on all sides by looming buildings. Now it’s a glittering, reflective thing, like Hawke is standing in the middle of a rainbow prism. Fenris is a glowing beacon, but so too is the ghoulish woman loitering outside the building, and the beady-eyed creature watching them from a ledge, and the pale gaze that drags over them like ice from beneath a glittering oil slick hood. 

If this is what the darkness looks like, the night market must be like standing in the middle of the sun. There is suddenly nothing Hawke would like to experience more.

“Don’t go supernova on me yet,” Hawke tells a bemused Fenris, whose flickering fades into a fierce blush. 

When Hawke offers his arm, Fenris takes it. The world swims around them as they turn left, turn right, loop around in a nonsensical route that leads them onto the main stretch. It’s exactly as Hawke predicted: bright and overwhelming. Instead of burning up, Hawke feels like he’s on the edge of an epiphany, or inventing a new colour, perhaps.

“Hawke!” bellows a familiar voice, one that has both enabled and reasoned with him. 

Hawke whips around, dragging an unnaturally pliant Fenris with him, to beam down at a practically blazing Varric—entirely due to the drink in his system coupled with Varric’s already vibrant hair and ruddy skin. 

“Good to see you back,” says Varric, giving his elbow a squeeze. He leans to the side to peek at a sagging Fenris. “And my third-favourite false god. Was it a tough job this time?”

Hawke scoffs. “Not at all. Burnt a farm though. They weren’t very happy.”

“They usually aren’t when you’re involved.”

“I take _great_ offence to that. People _love_ me.”

Varric throws his head back and absolutely howls with laughter. People trying to push past them, standing in the middle of the night market with no regard for the crowd, flinch away from the sound. 

“I’m headed to the Radstag for a meeting,” Varric says when he’s gathered himself. He looks them up and down, mouth twitching. “You want to come along?”

The Radstag is one of oldest inns, with walls and doors between rooms. More importantly, it has a bar on the bottom floor, which means more alcohol, which sounds like a terribly grand idea. “I would _love_ to.”

Fenris doesn’t reply, staring slack-jawed at a flashing neon sign that nearly melts Hawke’s brain from the second he glances at it.

“You two on something?”

“Raindrop of something-vian,” confirms Hawke, enthralling himself instead with iridescent shadows.

Varric laughs. “Dew of Eluvian? You’ll be fine in a few minutes, I’m sure. She should’ve called it the Flashbang instead. Zev’ll be upset you didn’t bring any for him.”

“Zevran?” Hawke perks up, purple and green pulsing around him. “He’ll be there too?”

“Accompanying his mayoral lordliness, yes.”

“What you’re saying is you’re really just inviting me so every time Alistair calls you out for being ridiculous, you can point at me for comparison?”

Varric pats Hawke’s butt with a winning smile. “I’m counting on you, friend.”

The bar-inn isn’t far from them, just at the furthest end of the night market that leads up to it like a glittering red carpet. By the time they reach it, the vibrant watery effect of whatever non-alcoholic substances Merrill gave them has dimmed. Settling in its stead is the comfortably familiar warmth of alcohol, liquid in his stomach and rubber in his bones. Fenris, on the other hand, resumes his air of prickliness, bolstered by embarrassment no doubt. Varric has sung no less than eight verses describing Fenris’ expression while under the influence.

The bar is packed when they enter, but Hawke spots Zevran immediately. For someone who’s made a living as a knife-for-hire, stabbing as easily as he seduces, Zevran certainly enjoys dancing on tabletops. Upon seeing them, he leaps down and pushes his way through the crowd.

“Against all odds, once again you return alive!” Zevran greets, the lilt of his accent making even that sound like poetry.

“Against Fenris’ better judgement, too,” says Hawke.

They clap each other on the shoulder and beam, although Zevran has more of a permanent smirk. 

“And my dear Varric,” starts Zevran, turning to the shorter man and stooping in a mockery of a bow. “The sculpt of your jaw intrigues me as always–”

“So Alistair is upstairs then?” interrupts Varric almost desperately. It takes a special kind of person to out-jibe Varric, and Zevran is just the right brand of wanton to win.

“Correct, but if you have the time, I have some rhymes I thought you would appreciate.”

“Would you look at that, no time! How sad. Hawke would love to hear them, I’m sure.”

And with that, Varric skidaddles up the stairs with an enthusiasm he never would have shown otherwise. Zevran turns his grin on Hawke and Fenris, who is determinedly pretending to have never met the assassin. They naturally migrate to the bar, where Zevran treats them each to a drink, although Fenris passes his off to Hawke.

“Here I thought your contract with the mayor was temporary,” says Hawke, dumping Fenris’ drink into his cup. 

“As did I,” says Zevran, “but it seems I’m just _too_ good at my job.”

“You can’t convince me he hired you to kill people.”

“Oh, not at all,” Zevran says slyly, swirling the contents of his cup. “The opportunity may have arisen, however. I considered it a freebie—a token of my affection, if you will.”

Fenris, standing apart from the two seated at the bar, makes a sound suspiciously like a derisive snort. Not all too suspicious, actually. 

“You scoff, but Alistair and I have a beautiful working relationship. He pays me to sneak about, and as such I’m also protected under the employ of the most powerful man in the city. Aboveground, anyway. He deserves one less interfering raider here and there.”

“I’m envious, truly,” says Hawke.

“I could put in a word for you.”

“You forget I tried to work for him once.”

“Oh, I never said it would be a good word.”

Hawke guffaws. In truth, working with Zevran would be disastrous. Not only because Fenris can’t stand him—as he can’t stand most people for extended periods of time, regardless of the thick skin he’s developed in Hawke’s company—but also Hawke wouldn’t trust Zevran not to stab him in the back if it meant winning something. They were very serious about their wagers, both of them. Sometimes it got out of hand. Throw Isabela into the mix and the three of them were the cause of more than one merc war.

As they go back and forth, the barkeep lingers in their general vicinity, polishing a tin can turned cup. He seems intent on Fenris, frowning slightly, until finally his curiosity wins out. He leans over the bar slightly to get Fenris’ attention.

“Do I know you?” wonders the barkeep.

Zevran answers for him, leaning into the barkeep’s space with a grin. “That depends, my good fellow, has the Courier ever visited your homestead?”

The barkeep blinks. “No? We have a shrine.”

“Oh, so the shrines work?” Zevran swings his head around to look at Fenris with mock curiosity.

Hawke raises his glass. “The farm we accidentally burned down the other day would say otherwise.”

“Ugh,” says Fenris, while the barkeep looks increasingly concerned at Zevran and Hawke’s inappropriate laughter. Fenris’ scowl only deepens when Zevran hooks a leg over Hawke’s.

The jokes that follow are just absurd enough that the barkeep starts finding excuses to hover at the opposite end of the bar. Fenris is too busy playing bodyguard to lurk elsewhere, but that just puts him in their line of fire.

“Bombshell blond,” says Zevran decisively, halfway through a bottle of rum and a long list of monikers to replace the Courier with, “if you count white as blond.”

Fenris glares at the surrounding crowd.

“ _Ooh_ , then atomic blond would work too.” Hawke pouts. “Fenris, would you consider dying your hair a shade darker? Rub some yellow flowers on it?”

“No.”

“Missed opportunity,” says Zevran with a sigh. He perks up. “Glowworm?”

“Almost cute.”

“You’re right, doesn’t suit him.”

“Fenris can pull off cute.”

Zevran’s laugh is pitying. “Only you would think that.”

“What? I’m not the only one with eyes around here!” protests Hawke.

“Uh huh. Blitzkrieg? Means lightning war.”

“I’m still considering glowworm.”

Suddenly there’s a man next to them, pale watery eyes narrowed as he draws a shiv. _“Institute scum.”_

Unfazed, Hawke cocks his head, fairly certain he saw the man before—or at least while he was wearing a hood that gleamed iridescent. Fenris hiss-sighs. Lifting his foot, he kicks the man in the chest. He goes flying into the next table over, clipping the edge and sending both himself and the table into a flip.

“I’ll take that as a vote for Blitzkrieg,” says Zevran in amusement, and then, pitching his voice deep and rough, shouts, _“The bastard tried to knife me!”_

The effect is instantaneous. Many of the bar’s patrons were waiting for an outlet for their aggression, and Zevran handed it to them on a tarnished platter, helped along by wayward bottles and spilled drinks and bodies being shoved into each other. A fist catches Hawke on the jaw. He staggers backwards, into a chest higher than his shoulders, and can’t help but laugh when he’s picked up and thrown.

Landing hurts—the table unable to support his weight crashing down on top of it—but it’s _fun_. Hawke lurches to his feet, giddy, and starts swinging. His knuckles hit flesh, skid off wood, split on glass, and he’s having the time of his life. Someone lands a kick to his groin and he returns the favour. 

His hands ache, cuts burn on his side, his shoulder, his ear. Zevran dances on top of the bar, dodging tankards empty and full as if part of a show. Hawke swears he spots Varric watching from the stairwell balcony, trading jabs with a resigned Alistair, until a tattooed behemoth of a ghoul swings at Hawke’s head. He ducks and slips between his braced legs, popping up to meet Fenris’ grey-green eyes.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Hawke drawls.

“Fancy getting stabbed here,” Fenris shoots back, grabbing Hawke by the elbow and viciously wading through the battle.

“I mean, I’d rather _not_.”

“But you have.”

“Pardon?”

Fenris shoots Hawke a look that can only be described as incredulous-but-not. “You have a knife sticking out of your ribs, Hawke. Shouldn’t you be more aware of that? Don’t take it– _Hawke!”_

Hawke drops the bloodied shiv to the ground. “Oops.”

“For the love of–” Fenris adjusts his manhandling so that he’s both leading Hawke and pressing a hand firmly against the wad of his shirt, bundled over the wound. A piercing pain joins the hot throb of his skin. 

Hawke doesn’t think it possible to simply walk free from a barfight, but Fenris does so with brutal efficiency. They pass Varric and Alistair on the stairs, ignoring their offers of help and leaving it to a battle-giddy Hawke to wave off their concern—loosely termed, as Varric has seen Hawke through worse and Alistair seems to think him immortal.

In a freshly vacated room, Fenris sits Hawke down on a chair that creaks ominously beneath him. As if posing a doll, he moves Hawke’s arms aside and strips him of his shirt, folding it up and again placing it between Hawke’s hand and wound. From the open doorway, the barkeep appears with a tray and bucket. Fenris doesn’t bother thanking him as he takes the gear and kicks the door shut. 

“How rude,” says Hawke in amusement. When Fenris starts on his wound, moving Hawke’s obedient hands aside, he can’t help but watch curiously as nimble, scarred hands swab and cleanse the injury. Hawke has reached a point in his life where watching the stitching of his wounds does more to distract him from the pain than anything else, but this is different. “This is new. You’re not usually the one fixing me up. Or ever, actually. Since when were you able to?”

Fenris pauses, cocking an eyebrow up at Hawke. “Every time you pass out from overexertion, and I take you to a doctor, did it not occur to you that I was paying attention?”

Well, _no_. Hawke always thought he left to take care of other business. Waiting and watching seems like a waste of time. The thought of Fenris looming over a nervous doctor’s shoulder is a funny one, or must be for Hawke’s stomach to flutter like it does. Or maybe it’s nausea from the pierce and tug of the stitches.

“You learned a new skill _just_ for me?” Hawke croons. “Since when did you get so sweet?”

Fenris sighs heavily. “Nevermind,” he says as if Hawke chose the wrong answer to a different question he never even asked. 

Which unsettles Hawke for reasons he can’t explain.

“So, what’ll be next?” Hawke says instead of shutting his mouth and letting the man sew him up. “Setting broken bones? Skin grafting? Please tell me skin grafting, I actually do regret some of these tattoos. They really didn’t settle in the burn scars like I thought they would.”

Fenris’ is suspiciously quiet. He knots the final stitch, dabs it with burning alcohol, moves on to clean the bloody knuckles of Hawke’s left hand. He finishes by wiping his hands and whipping the filthy cloth into the bucket with a splash.

Hawke reels back from droplets of water pink with his own blood. He doesn’t think he deserved that. “Lighten up, why don’t you?”  
  
“I’m traumatized, Hawke,” says Fenris flatly.

“I can _see_ that.”

“And so are you.”

“How do you figure?”

“After the Forged—” And Hawke knows he’s in for it now, “—you can’t sleep next to an open fire anymore, but you won’t tell me what happened. The apartment is a storage unit for weapons when you used to actually sleep in it. When you hear anything close to a Geiger counter, you start to sweat. You never mention your mother anymore. Your brother, after the Deep Roads. Your _sister._ ”

“Well,” scoffs Hawke with little else to say since that’s the short list.

“How long can you laugh it off?”

“Forever, ideally.” Which is about how close he gets to addressing the things that haunt him. This conversation might make it onto the list, too.

Fenris sits on the edge of the bare mattress and fixes Hawke with such an intense look that he has to look away. “Hawke, I don’t ask because I don’t think you’ll tell, but you’re fucked up in a way that hiding it isn’t going to help.”

“Ouch–”

“ _Listen_. The only reason anyone knows who I am is because I took a job as a messenger, and I walked away from the destruction simple words could cause. And I did it again, and again, even when it wasn’t words causing it but _me_. Wastelanders see the Courier as a bad omen and they’re not wrong.”

“Okay,” says Hawke with an almost-laugh. “Fenris, my man. I was just teasing, no need to pop the stitches of that particular wound.”

Openly ignoring him, Fenris continues, “I’m a walking nuke, a warhead, a landmine, yet you’re still here.”

Fenris covers the repaired hole in Hawke’s side with his hand. Hawke automatically tenses, even though he knows Fenris wouldn’t be that cruel—he put a lot of effort into those stitches after all—but it still comes as a surprise when Fenris does... nothing. He simply rests his palm there, warm between the sliver of space between their skin. 

Hawke does not relax. If he does, he might do something ridiculous like slip his hand over Fenris’. He isn’t prepared for a second stab wound, because that is _definitely_ a thing that Fenris would be ready to do, not as though he just admitted to learning medical aid for the sole purpose of fixing Hawke up. Not as though Hawke is determined to read cold indifference where there very clearly isn’t. Not as though Hawke is scrambling to hold up the flimsy wall of his nonchalance.

“Remember when I gave you radiation poisoning,” says Fenris, “and after you got better I left for three days?”

“Yep,” says Hawke, aiming for flippant and absolutely nailing it, staring at Fenris’ hand aside.

“I never told you where I was going.”

“Nope.”

“Or that I was leaving.”

“Sure didn’t.”

“Hawke, I _left_.”

“You sure did?”

“No. Hawke.” Fenris clicks his tongue in exasperation. “I never meant to come back. I left _you._ But I came back to that stupid hovel and you were still there. There was nothing to stay for but you did. You waited for me.”

“What of it?” says Hawke, once again attempting flippant but not quite making it. 

Instead of responding, Fenris just _looks_ at him. 

He isn’t used to a Fenris that isn’t tearing him a new one, hissing a sigh, or fighting back to back with him. Sometimes he finds himself walking in on a Fenris that he doesn’t think he has permission to see—one that is groggy and gentle, or another that is silent and sad. Even rarer still is when he sees the hesitant curve of his smile widen in a laugh. He thinks and dreams of those moments so much they might beat out his trauma, if they don’t end up joining it first.

Because the innocent flutter in his belly and the prickle of heat in his cheeks terrifies him in a way that sleeping next to open flame doesn’t.

He’s done a fine good job avoiding looking too deeply into that, and Fenris, in all his prickly, icy glory, has made it _easy_. No questions, no advice—even his judgement is easily brushed off, because he knows Hawke in a way that Hawke has shown him on purpose. And in return, the man doesn’t try to dig through Hawke’s words for something deep. He takes the snide edges and petty flair and nods along. _That’ll be Hawke_ , he probably thought when Hawke answered Isabela’s “Why did you chop your tits off?” with “Didn’t want ‘em anymore.”

So he doesn’t know how to deal with a Fenris that’s staring at him like he’s disappointed—not in burning down a farmstead or cackling about beheading a ghoul or joking about riding a deathclaw into battle, but because he’s doing his utmost to avoid regurgitating the emotional sediment that just barely begun settling in the pit of his stomach. 

He needs another of whatever Merrill gave them.

“Don’t look at me like that,” says Hawke.

Fenris’ eyes widen a fraction. Too late, Hawke realizes he slipped. Usually he doesn’t have to think twice about being glib, but this time his throat is raw and he pitched it too deep, too normal, too honest.

His breath hitches and he needs alcohol _now_. 

“I don’t know how to show you more than I already have,” Fenris says slowly, “so let me tell you.”

Fenris clearly doesn’t realize just how far Hawke is willing to take his wildly crafted obliviousness. 

Hawke, apparently, doesn’t realize just how far Fenris is willing to follow.

“You are the most rude, resourceful, chaotic, approachable, unruly person I know. You destroyed all my first impressions of you, and again to the second and the third. Even now you keep me guessing, but when it comes to whether or not you’ll be there when I return, I know. Where it counts, where it _really_ counts, you’ve never disappointed me. We have fought off ghouls and raiders and deathclaws and darkspawn, but not once did I second guess whether you would have my back. There is no one I would rather face down death with.”

He pauses to take a breath and then just _keeps going_ , as if he isn’t eviscerating Hawke with every word.

“I trust you, and have trusted you, since coming back to that hovel. When I think about what that means, I’m not scared. Before, maybe, but not anymore. Not for a long time. Because I know you wouldn’t hurt me given the choice. Maybe that’s why… why I care about you in a way I haven’t cared about anyone in a long time—couldn’t see myself caring about since long before you.”

Fenris’ exhale is shaky. 

Like the idiot he is, Hawke laughs nervously. “Damn, just say that you love me and go.”

“I love you and I won’t leave you.”

“Oh god,” says Hawke.

“Don’t use my name in vain.”

Hawke chokes on his incredulous laugh, and even he doesn’t realize it isn’t a laugh until there’s wet heat on his face and Fenris’ smile looks so sad and—

On any other day, Hawke would admit he is the personification of poor choices. But with Fenris treating him as gently as he treats the small, delicate things of the wasteland, Hawke doesn’t think any of the choices that led to this moment could possibly be wrong.

“Hawke.” A hand—brown and silver with scars and creased with red that never washed away—slipping over Hawke’s, big and calloused and shaking against his will. “I’m not leaving, so why don’t you?”

A fat tear drips off the end of Hawke’s nose. How can he possibly answer that? He stayed because Fenris let him; he stayed because there was nowhere else to go; he stayed because he wanted to and even the thought of fighting doesn’t excite him if Fenris isn’t there alongside him. 

“I think,” says Hawke, “you are someone I don’t want to live without. If I can help it. I don’t want you to– to go where I can’t follow, and I don’t want to go where you don’t _want_ to follow. I-I know you never asked for me to burden you. I won’t–”

“I just confessed to loving you.”

“Y–” Hawke chokes on his spit. “Gfuh.”

Fenris cocks his head, endeared for no good reason. “Do my feelings burden you? Just nod or shake your head, I’d hate for you to pass out.”

Hawke glares at him but shakes his head.

“I’m glad.” Fenris nods. “Your feelings don’t burden me either. In fact, I’m more than willing to take on more of them, if you’d let me. I can handle it. I’m not as fragile as I look.”

Hawke has seen Fenris in a three way duel between a deathclaw and a darkspawn ghoul hybrid and come out of it glowing and untouched. He’s also heard Fenris in the middle of the night, whimpering names he’s never mentioned in the daytime. The idea of adding to that sours the warmth that was nestling cozily between Hawke’s unpierced ribs.

Seeing his uncertainty, Fenris squeezes Hawke’s hand until he looks up. “How can either of us know what we can handle if we don’t bother trusting each other with it?”

“You may find this hard to believe,” says Hawke with a huff of a laugh, “but I don’t want to hurt you. And you can’t say I won’t. You’re going to confide in me and I’m going to laugh—not because it’s funny but because I literally have nothing to say.”

“Yeah, you’re terribly awkward.” 

Hawke scoffs but doesn’t deny it. Fenris has said worse. 

“But,” adds Fenris, “you don’t have to say anything. All you have to do is listen, and don’t make it too obvious you think I have a bad temper.”

“You had me in the first half, I won’t lie–”

Fenris looks torn between wanting to hit Hawke and maybe smile. Which, now that Hawke thinks back on it, might be a more common reaction than he previously thought. 

“Okay,” Hawke says. He turns his hands over in Fenris’, wiggling his fingers until he can get a good grip. It feels nice. He always thought hand holding was a waste of a grip, but clearly that was because he’d never tried it before. With Fenris. There’s probably a lot of things, actually, that he might find he enjoys if it’s with Fenris.

Fenris looks down at their joined hands. “And. If you decide it’s too much, you can always just tell me you don’t want to hear anymore–”

“Nah.”

“Hawke–”

“Fenris,” mimics Hawke, grinning when Fenris petulantly presses his nails into his hand. “Warn me, if you want, but I’m never going to tell you to stop talking. The opposite, in fact. Don’t stop talking to me. I can’t get enough of it. Of you. I–” 

He breaks off with a strangled laugh. Fenris is wearing that incredulous-but-not expression again, now with red cheeks.

“Don’t force yourself,” he says. “I know how sincerity poisons you.”

“No way, I’m on a roll,” retorts Hawke, desperately trying to smother the inane reflex to giggle away his awkwardness. “Despite all evidence proving otherwise, I’m serious. Even if you have to deal with this—” He gestures at his own red, tearful, grimacing face with his busted hand, “—I still want you to confide in me. No matter how terrible a decision that is.”

Fenris gazes at him for a long moment, grey-green eyes flicking between his, not searching but satisfied with simply looking. His answering smile is bright.

“Thank you,” he says, so sincerely that Hawke has no choice but to believe his gratitude.

That’s one of the things Hawke loves about the wasteland: it might have made broken men out of both of them, but it also gave them each other.

Sure, there’s another farm that might get burned down tomorrow, and Isabela will have to deal with being written out of his secret will out of sheer spite, and maybe some of Merrill’s dew juice will find its way into the Radstag’s supply. Normal, as it means for them.

But normal now also means grabbing Fenris’ hand and delighting in his half-hearted scoff as he tugs him around; seeing his eyes linger on a jagged mountain view and be able to ask what it means to him; waking paralyzed not to demons and a mumbled list of the long deceased, but whispers of rare peaceful things and, when Hawke can move again, another person to hold and whisper back to.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> [tum](http://bitterbeetle.tumblr.com)   
>  [twt](http://twitter.com/bitterbeetle)


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